


Untitled Zombie Apocalypse War Novel For The Next Century (by WAR HERO ALFRED JONES)

by paperdragon



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, idek know what this is, its like shawn of the dead meets america basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 21:45:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19281781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperdragon/pseuds/paperdragon
Summary: ‘Buddy we are in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, I specialize in botany in unfavorable terrain and I just saw you make a sword out of PVC pipe, string and hair curler; we are definitely teaming up.’or, how Alfred Jones, Future Celebrated War Hero, fell in love, found his family, and got through a zombie apocalypse. Not in that order.





	Untitled Zombie Apocalypse War Novel For The Next Century (by WAR HERO ALFRED JONES)

 

So here’s the thing: Alfred never thought he’d thank Uncle Teddy for forcing him into a Doctorate for Botany. In fact, he did his five-year degree at MIT in three and a half, out of the sheer urge to just be done with it. But then the thing happened, right, and Alfred kind of, maybe spent a while mentally apologizing for spitting on Uncle Teddy’s grave.

So the thing happens like this: Alfred wakes up for his second day of the first class he’s teaching on what he _actually loved studying all through grad school:_ nuclear physics, and realizes something’s wrong only when his usually chirpy Italian neighbor doesn’t flail about something in the elevator. There’s something very wrong with Feliciano, Alfred thinks, sipping the cold Starbucks latte he bought for twelve dollars with zero regrets, something very wrong.

The Italian is in his usual seat, just with his face smashed against the wall.

‘Hey there buddy, long night amirite - ’ Alfred pokes him in the shoulder, and drops his latte (lots of regrets) when Feliciano’s face looks like a very angry puppy just bit into it. Multiple times.

Alfred’s kind of glad that he hasn’t had breakfast yet, because Good God. He stands there for a moment, the elevator isn’t moving because no one’s pressed the button. From the far end of the hallway, he hears groaning. And some shuffling. Although there’s a seventy percent chance it’s only Heracles, the lazy bum going to find his escapee cat again, Alfred can’t help but feel there’s something extremely wrong. The footsteps get closer. Taking a deep breath, Alfred tries to remember everything he can about that time Arthur and he got drunk while watching Shawn of the Dead. He very calmly walks back to his apartment, opens his door, walks to his closet.

‘God bless America,’ he says, and grabs his gun-filled duffle bag. There’s a vague scratching at his door, and Alfred is almost ashamed to admit it, but there’s a moment where his fingers shake, his heart pounds. He always keeps his glock loaded, and he turns the safety off as silently as he can. Somehow, the sound seems to echo.

The scratching intensifies. Alfred for some reason, in this particular moment, remembers being five and begging God for the new Resident Evil video game.

This is not what he meant.

He cautiously approaches the door. Maybe it’s not what he’s thinking. Maybe it’s just a really wild dog, like Cujo. Hello, Stephen King. Didn’t know you were going to be here today.

‘Maybe it’s not a zombie,’ Alfred whispers to himself. ‘Maybe it’s just a new pet the Chinese guy bought.’

 _To eat,_ his mind adds.

‘Hey,’ Alfred tells his mind. ‘That’s not politically correct, and also pretty damn raci- OH MY GOD IT’S WHAT I THOUGHT -’

He fires.

x.

Covered in a very thick sheen of sweat, Alfred grabs his hello kitty duffle bag that’s full of guns and his back pack. He takes his phone and charger, and turns the TV on. He thinks his third grade self would find him so cool right now. He wonders if he’ll end up talking to himself, and like, shop mannequins, like Will Smith in _I am Legend_. Good film, he thinks.

It’s Fox News, and they’re talking about how Trump is representing minorities, by being the first Zombie president. They look pale as fuck, Alfred thinks, remembering this super white chick from Antarctica he once slept with.

He switches to another one, and oh, this is the shit Arthur’s always on about. So here we go, breaking news: THE WORLD HAS OFFICIALLY SHIT ITSELF. Apparently there’s been some epidemic, from what the pretty newscaster tells him before a rando zombie chomps on her neck.

 _And you said Brexit was the worst thing to happen to our generation,_ Alfred mentally scoffs at Arthur. Then: _Oh my God, is Arthur even still alive?_

He’s dialing his friend/person when he accidentally steps on zombie-Heracles’ oozing brain, and it makes this disgusting squelching sound, like a squeezy ketchup bottle.

‘Oh, gross,’ he says out loud, wiping his boot heel against the carpet.

Arthur’s phone keeps ringing. Alfred dials Matthew then, wondering what to feel.

‘Well, this is trash,’ he says, again. ‘It’s a Monday! Of course the zombie apocalypse would fall on a damn fucking Monday.’

When even Matthew’s dial tone politely asks him to leave a message, Alfred grabs his iPod and puts on the Lion King Soundtrack and mourns to the tune Simba’s dad died to.

‘Well, let’s see if there’s a McDonald’s still open,’ he thinks.

Purposefully, and kind of bitterly, he steps on Heracles outstretched hand and revels in the crunching sound of bone.

x.

Alfred only realizes how the epidemic spread when he sees a half-zombie chewing on a beef quarter pounder, and almost breaks into tears.

‘The zombie apocalypse started from MCDONALDS?! WHY, GOD WHY?!’ he yells shooting a zombie away in the parking lot. Things look pretty abandoned as of now, only the odd shuffling that warns him, but Alfred gets into his car and drives like a motherfucker. An approaching zombie gets run over, and Alfred tells himself it was just a bad speed bump.

‘So, no proper food,’ he says, ‘or at least, no meat. I’ll have to ransack a bunch of stores, and find a safe place to hunker down and -’

And what exactly? What is he striving for exactly? What is the meaning of life?

‘Okay,’ he tells himself, ‘let’s not get too philosophical. I’m going to go to Connecticut. I’m going to find Arthur. If anyone I know has to have a panic room, it’s Arthur. So, I’m going to find Arthur, be the hero that I am, drag him to Canada and find Matthew. Good stuff.’

Or maybe he’s just trying to find something to do in a suddenly aimless world.  

x.

So Alfred’s great plan of going off and being a hero works out pretty great, up until he sees a very human looking figure huddling in the corner off the old GAP store Alfred was obsessed with in his Hip-Hop phase. The person’s shaking so fast and so consistently, Alfred can tell they aren’t a zombie. He gets out with his rifle and walks towards them, cautious, but also certain.

‘Hey, there, you doing okay buddy?’ he calls out.

The guy turns, and Alfred’s _not_ being racist here, but the guy looks very Japanese – and he looks terrified, point blank _petrified –_ so scared in fact _,_ it’s making Alfred come up with new synonyms on the spot.

‘Hello – see, Mister..’ The guy stutters out. His accent’s a lot thicker than Alfred expected, but maybe it’s the fear that’s made it worse.

‘What’s your name?’ Alfred says, he slings the rifle to the side and stretches out his hand. ‘Come on, don’t stay there too long -’

And that’s when another rando zombie promptly jumps out of the GAP store and bites the guy in the neck. Alfred’s trying to load his rifle up – _damn damnit damnit fucking fuck –_ and the zombie’s coming towards him, while the other guy’s writhing on the pavement, and how the fuck are these things so fast, shit, shit, _shit shit shit –_

And then WHACK – and the zombie goes down like a sack of potatoes, just as Alfred manages to load his gun up and stick it up. Only now it’s pointing at this other dude, who is holding an extremely intimidating metal pipe.

‘You are welcome,’ the man says, and it’s only his slightly tinged accent that tips over to the realization that he’s Russian.

‘I didn’t say thanks,’ Alfred says, gun still trained. ‘But thanks.’

The man rolls his eyes, and smiles. Then he turns towards the writhing man on the ground and promptly begins to beat his head in.

Alfred feels like this would make a great vine, if like, vine was still a thing, and you know, there were people still alive enough to see it.

‘Pipe’s pretty handy. You a plumber?’ Alfred asks, almost cringing over his thought process.

The man gives one more hit. ‘Office worker. I was senior manager for a paper company.’

Alfred whistles. It’s kind of awkward, standing near a gap, with two dead people on the floor. There’s a small gooey piece of flesh sliding off the man’s pipe in the trail of blood, and Alfred feels oddly numb. This isn’t how normal people react to this shit. A normal person would cry, freak out, and have a breakdown. They wouldn’t stand there in their comfortable sweatpants in silence with a guy who definitely looks like he’s been whacking people on the head for a lifetime. _Senior manager my ass,_ Alfred thinks.

‘I was a physics professor. Well. Associate. Today was my second day. I was going to recap modern quantum theories,’ for fucks sake, he sounds like he’s whining. ‘Name’s Alfred.’

‘Ivan,’ the guy replies. ‘Where are you headed?’

‘To see if a friend is alive,’ Alfred says. ‘You?’

‘Walmart,’ Ivan says. It sounds strangely hilarious, coming from a guy like him.

But now that he thinks about it, it seems like a great idea – after all, that’s kind of what Alfred was going for, before, you know. He got deterred from it all.

‘Huh, well,’ he says. ‘We should go together. Keep an eye out.’

‘Just until Walmart,’ Ivan tells him, like that’s the end of it. And maybe it is. Alfred doesn’t really want a whole thing right now, he has enough to do and look after.

So maybe this is it, and when he survives, he can write a whole novel about his experience in the Zombie World War, and it can be the war-era defining novel of the century, and they can teach it in schools and shit, and Arthur will probably critique his grammar, and practically choke on his envy and outrage over knowing that Alfred has a best seller –

It’s the thought of Arthur that brings him back to reality, but it’s also Ivan poking him in the shoulder with the pipe.

‘We should go now, da,’ Ivan says, blankly. ‘If we want to survive the Walmart.’

‘Not like there’s a black Friday sale or some shit, I mean,’ Alfred replies, rubbing his shoulder where he’s been poked and then hoisting up his bag.

‘Are you a homosexual?’ Ivan asks, looking at his Hello Kitty bag with disgust.

‘I’m a raging bisexual, excuse you,’ Alfred says, as they start to walk. ‘Don’t bi-erase me. No, sir.’

‘So you’re a girl, then,’ Ivan says, brightly. ‘Explains a lot.’

Alfred shakes his head. This will be an annoying apocalypse, but that's okay. Nothing's more annoying than Alfred.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> oh my god, it's happening, nobody freak out.
> 
>  **1** this has been lying in my drafts for around a year now, so here's to random motivation making me publish it. i'd love to know what people think!


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